What's the point in living, if no one's there to watch?

With a click, my phone unlocked. They’d changed the passcode, but forgotten about touch ID. I snorted derisively; what fools, and they called themselves doctors? Scrolling past app upon app, I watched the hairs on my arm raise their heads excitedly. Breathless, my heart moved louder, triumphantly. I’d had more life in me now than in the past three days. I wondered which nurse had been careless enough to leave it within such easy reach and I wanted to sing their praises. Then it came into focus. I felt giddy with the serotonin. I breathed it in, savouring the bubble of joy in this moment, teetering on the precipice of desire before making the descent into satiety.

I was careful not to make too much noise in fear of their return, for they’d expel me back into that unbearable, archaic land of reality, where you had to interact with the objects around you as opposed to directly controlling what constituted your world. They’d tried to make me read, for God’s sake. Forced the bound chronicles of some sad man’s life into my hands and demanded my attention; for every chapter untouched I’d be imprisoned another day. So, I finished it within the first two hours, hopeful until they handed me another. Then another. I had no faith left in their promises but nor did I want to risk their punishment. The whiteness took over, freezing everything else in that pocket of time. My breath was held, heart paused, eyes unblinking. A boxy outline took form, psychedelically merging from violet into crimson, and I was captivated. As the familiar structure loaded into view, I exhaled, trying to remain calm, pretending to focus on the photos at the top of my screen. This delay was agonising; the updates always lagged behind, as if on purpose, taunting me. Then, when it felt like one second too long had passed, the fuchsia heart appeared at the top of my screen, carrying with it numbers whose total ran in direct proportion to my happiness.

Glancing around me, I spotted the pile of books thrown across the windowsill. Flicking open the camera, I scrolled along the filters, pausing at points to test one before I moved along to the next. Finally, a favourite popped into view; it turned the ugly book pile into a fuzzy, nineteen-seventies-esque affair, blurring the outline and shedding a warm golden haze over the scene. From pauper to princess, I thought, feeling happier than I had in days. At the touch of a button, everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

A shadow crossed the bed. A cold hand grabbed my shoulder, disarming me. The phone was gone, snatched even before I could cry out. It didn’t stop me a few seconds later; screaming, another hand was slammed across my mouth. I felt a sharp prick in my upper arm, and I struggled, the tears raining down my cheeks and soaking my assailant’s gloved fingers so much that they loosened their grip slightly.

“Give it back! Stop!” My voice came out a broken mumble, dulled by the hand. “Please.” I didn’t use the air gaps to scream again; I didn’t have the stamina to fight away the overwhelming dread that was filtering through me. It had started so insidiously but I knew what was coming - it had come before.

The hand was removed; they knew I would weaken without need of further intervention. As they stepped across to the end of the bed, I could feel my toes going numb. The two doctors crossed their arms in unison, examining me.

The nurse still had the needle in one hand, and phone in the other. She passed the polka-dotted case across to the others. “She was uploading the books.”

One of the doctors cocked his head at me. “Why?” he asked plainly.

I didn’t need to reply, I told myself, but just as with my compulsion to upload, I now felt a compulsion to speak. “It’s not worth it if they can’t see it,” I whispered. They continued to stare at me. “I need them to see,” my voice broke but I carried on, “everything I do, it’s not worth it, not if they don’t see I’m doing it.”

I felt my legs go numb. It was happening too fast; I had their attention but before long I wouldn’t be able to speak, and they would leave. I needed to convince them to let me out. They didn’t need to save me: I was happier in my drug-fuelled haze.

“I need them to see,” I repeated, “It gives me life. It gives me my life.” My hips were numb. My stomach was feeling strange. I was running out of time. “I can’t live without it.” My voice split, strangulated. My lower stomach had gone. “Without it,” I rasped, “it’s not,” my chest was going, “worth living.” Their silhouettes swam in front of me.

The first doctor turned to the other. “Interesting,” he said, unemotionally. “Note that. And nurse?” he nodded to her as black spots began to take over my eyes, “Fetch her some more books. She’ll need them.”